


No Small Part

by o0katiekins0o



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Mystrade fluff, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 17:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3700757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0katiekins0o/pseuds/o0katiekins0o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly and Greg go round the pub to dish on their respective Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Small Part

**Author's Note:**

> This is a love letter to my two favorite Holmes ships: Sherlolly and Mystrade.
> 
> There are no small parts, only small actors. Greg and Molly are two of the largely unsung heroes of Sherlock and I adore their friendship.

He watched the hunched grey hump of a person skipping toward him through sheets of rain, khaki trousers drenched nearly to the knee. Her oversized bag flailing haphazardly behind her as she dodged a particularly deep puddle of brown rainwater that had collected in the shoulder between the pavement and the kerb.  

"Where's your coat? It's pissing down out here!" The silver haired man half-shouted over the cacaphonous tympany of hard rain against the awning outside the grotty pub where he'd been waiting for her. 

Molly ducked underneath it, pulling down the light jacket she'd haphazardly thrown over her hair, shaking out the water droplets as she did. She shivered slightly as a slight gale picked up and blew past them along the cobblestones of the walkway. Her face was a bloodless pale except for the blooming redness on her nose, cheeks and ears. Some of the hair that had shaken loose from her normally neat ponytail was sticking to the sides of her face in serpentine tendrils. 

"You-know-who had me rushing about the lab and I forgot it." She explained, her voice was clipped slightly due to her chin beginning to tremble in the cold.

Lestrade took a drag on his cigarette before grinning cheekily, "Voldemort?"

Molly smiled, crinkling her nose at his joke. "Yes, he came back from evil wizard hell to wreak havoc on my lab." She sighed attempting playfulness but it came it as a harsh exhale, gesturing toward his cigarette pack.

"Yours too, eh?" He chuckled, fishing a fag from the packet. She placed it between her lips and Lestrade bent forward to light it for her.

She leaned against the brick facade of the pub taking a heavy drag and sighing out the smoke with a look of satisfaction. The sort of frantic, needy satisfaction of a person grasping the ratty end of their nerves.

So it had been that sort of day. Greg noted silently.

"Well that's the point of these little meet ups isn't it? Support group for lovers of deduce-bags!" Molly giggled at her own joke, willing herself into a state of calm and taking another hard, desperate drag. She smoked as if her life depended on it.

He smirked, Molly truly did have a ridiculous sense of humor. Merely another of her many endearing qualities oftentimes lost on the consulting 'evil wizard' known as Sherlock Holmes. 

Greg opened his mouth to make another comment but something caught the corner of his eye. When he looked, of course, nothing was there.  Still his hackles were raised. Years of police work had taught him, in so many painful ways, never to ignore those instincts. 

He plucked the cigarette, already smoked 2/3rds of the way to the filter, from Molly's mouth and tossed it in a nearby puddle.

"Oi! The fuck was that for?" She shouted in frustration.

"Time to get inside." With an arm across her shoulder he turned her toward the entrance of the pub, urging her inside with a nudge. 

She seemed to understand and hastily pushed through the door, weaving through the small crowd of rugby fans shouting at an ancient fuzzy pictured television mounted on the wall, still making use of rabbit ear antennas . 

This location had been chosen specifically for it's noisiness and crowd. Made it easier to disappear inside. All the better when privacy was the goal.

Settling into a tiny table, Greg motioned to the barman that they would each like a pint.

"Don't tell me he's having you followed again." Molly sighed. 

Greg rolled his head back and inhaled deeply before resting his left temple on his fist. "No. Yes, I don't know- probably. I've found it's best to assume he is." He turned to the waiter dropping off their drinks, "Thanks, mate." 

"Jesus Christ." Molly shook her head taking a heavy gulp from her glass. "What the fuck is with these Holmes boys?" Molly wiped foam from her chin. "You know mine tapped my mobile?"

Greg chuckled. "He didn't."

"Oh yes he did. I suppose I have you to thank for that. Thanks, by the way." She rolled her eyes and took another deep gulp from her glass. She had hers halfway drained by the second drink.

Greg gestured across the pub for another round. "What did I do?" He asked before getting to work on his own pint.

"He thinks you and I are-" Molly pouted her lips giving a suggestive glance. "Never mind that I'd be barking up the wrong tree seeing as how you're-"

Greg coughed and cut her off. "Not the wrong tree. Just the wrong season... You know I'm practically old enough to be your father."

"Yes, Greg. It's the age gap that's keeping us apart. Not the fact that you're-"

Greg looked away. He clearly wasn't enough drinks in to comfortably discuss the nature of his relationship with Mycroft Holmes in such blunt terms.

"Maybe not, but the result is all the same. Different season of my life, different priorities. Once upon a time, maybe yeah, but..." Greg trailed off with a shrug. 

"Sorry. I mean, you know. It's just so ridiculous. What does it say about us that we know about each other but the deductive geniuses we're in love with don't know their own brother is seeing someone?" She grumbled. "It's inexplicable given that they are constantly into each other's business." 

Greg swallowed on a long gulp of beer and brought his glass down with a thud. "Are you?"

"Wha?"

"Seeing each other." He clarified. "I mean, is it... Official?" He raised a brow.

"Fuck if I know!" Molly groaned, dropping her face into her hands. This time it was Greg's turn to feel like he'd said the wrong thing. 

"What does it mean when a man is shagging you regularly and then taps your phone when he thinks another man is sniffing around. But then runs out like his arse is on fire when he realizes half his shirts are hanging in your closet?" 

"Sounds like you're officially seeing a chicken shit." Greg said between gulps, finding the bottom of his glass."But then again, I'm old-fashioned." 

Molly shook her head, "Mycroft still doesn't know about me? Me and Sherlock?" She looked up at him anxiously, he wasn't sure what to tell her. Nothing he had to say would make her feel better. 

"I think he probably suspects." Greg lied.

Molly scoffed at his blatant attempt to spare her feelings, "Either he knows and doesn't care or he doesn't know because he doesn't care to know." Molly stared into her empty glass as if she could shatter it with just her gaze. "It means the same thing regardless. I don't count."

The waiter brought their second round and Molly eyed the beer for a moment before making a decision.

"Fuck it. Can I get a whiskey neat? Thanks." She said to the waiter.

"Two please." Greg added.

Silence fell while they both got an impressive start on their second pint. After a moment Molly worked up to nerve to ask, "So are you and Mycroft... you know... official?" She affected air quotes around the last word as she spoke with a slanted grin.

Greg lowered his glass with a serious expression. "He's the British government. Everything he does is official." He looked away for a moment, something like wistfulness crossed his face, "Doesn't mean I matter anymore to him than Anthea when it's all done and dusted. Take it from a man who knows, official- unofficial. It's all the same when the rubber meets the road. Part of me thinks it's just so I can sort out his affairs if... you know..." He looked away.  

The whiskey arrived and Greg abandoned the pint in favor of the stronger drink. He took a stinging swallow and winced. "'Sides. I've still got Lucas and Jamie, haven't I? Don't expect Mycroft Holmes will want to set up house and play modern family with me and my two. Nah. Better this way." He shook his head.

"Who knows maybe in time-" Molly attempted to console him but he waved her words away. Even as she was saying It, she knew how remote that possibility was. She wasn't even entirely sure what it was she was trying to say in the first place.  

"We are what we are, Mols. I love him. God help me, I do. But I've had my domestic bit. It was fine for a time, but this is what I need now. He is what I need now. If this is how it has to be for me to have him, that's fine. Spares me the awkward two daddies conversation with my kids anyhow." He sniffed and Molly's heart sank.

She knew Lucas and Jamie. They were good kids and recovering from some serious emotional upheaval after their mum ran off with that PE teacher, those years back. She was certain they would benefit from a second adult role model, and wouldn't give a fig that their dad was in love with another man. 

"They love you, Greg. As long as you're happy, they'll be happy too. You're their dad." She sipped at her glass mostly to have something to do with her hands. 

"Yeah?" He asked hopefully. 

"Definitely." Molly couldn't help but envy Greg. She'd never had her domestic bit and by all indications she never would. If Sherlock had his way the Hooper line would die off with her. "Sic transit gloria mundi." She murmured into her whiskey.

"Beg pardon?" 

She sighed. "It's Latin."

"Yeah. Gathered that bit. What does it mean?", Lestrade was nearing the bottom of his whiskey and eyeing the dregs of his forgotten pint.

"Thus passes the glory of the world" she answered "Or to phrase it another way, worldly things are fleeting. You have a legacy, Greg. Your kids will carry on your name and your memory long after your dead and gone. When I die. That's that. I'll have nothing and no one. Everything I've done, everything I've worked for, it'd be as if it never mattered at all." She looked away, her eyes reddening slightly.

"Jesus, Molly. You haven't had enough to drink to justify being this bloody solemn! Who pissed in your weetabix?" Greg asked sarcastically to costume his genuine concern.

She rubbed the end of her nose with her sleeve and huffed, downing the remainder of her whiskey with a hard gulp. "Just dealing with reality, s'all." 

She pushed the whiskey glass away raising her hand toward the bar for another. Polishing off the remnants of her second pint she sighed, starting to feel the warming effects of the alcohol tingling from her navel to her knees and back up again.

"I've had a scare." She disclosed, her voice low and nearly rasping. 

Greg's brows in with slight confusion before realization bloomed inside his widening eyes. "Oh hell..."

Molly nodded. "Just a few days late, stress I suppose. But it was enough to nearly send me into hysterics. I mean, really, could you imagine a worse situation to bring a child into? A hopeless mum who can't say no, and a workaholic dad who can't say yes."

She shook her head and reached for the second whiskey the waiter had just brought. She downed the drink in one long pull, holding the waiter by his shirt sleeve to keep him there. She let out a little huff and dabbed her chin with her thumb before gasping out "Another." and sending him on his way. 

"Actually, I can." Greg answered. "There are much worse situations children get born into every day. A lot of them come out all right, more or less. I've seen it first hand. And then there are those insanely lucky ones who are born with everything, money, talent, looks, love and they still manage to turn out to be-"

"Sociopathic junkies?" Molly supplied with a hollow laugh. 

"That's not where I was going with that." He closed his eyes and shook his head. He paused as if considering something then exhaled."I thought I'd made the perfect life for a family. Pretty little docile wife, fine salt-of-the-earth type job. Upwardly mobile, little house in the suburbs, minivan-the whole kit. Instead my wife turned out to be a cheating slag who ran out on her family, can't even be arsed to call her kids on Christmas or birthdays. I'm just scrambling to make it work, the single dad bit. On top of everything I've got Voldemort and His-bloody-Majesty on either side of me, driving me mad. By anyone's account, in black and white, I'm cocking this up royally. But Lucas and Jamie... they're alright. We're alright. All anyone can do is keep their head down and move forward." 

Molly nodded but then seemed to be examining the cracks in the laminate of the cheap bar table. There was such a long lull in their conversation Greg began to think she was waiting for him to change the subject. He opened his mouth to rattle of some aside about Jamie preparing for her A-levels when she spoke again.

"I used to think I'd be thrilled if I accidentally got pregnant." She stated blandly. "But all I felt when I looked at that negative pregnancy test was relief." Her eyes glistened, oh please God no. She was about to cry in the middle of this pub and Greg didn't know how to fix it.

"I'd lose him, you know. I'd lose him before I ever properly had him. He'd write a big check and ship me and the baby off to bum-fuck , Egypt and that'd be the last I saw of him." Her lower lip trembled and she blinked out a single tear that splashed onto the back of her hand. 

In a gesture that was meant to be comforting, he shushed her and took her by the hand. "Hey, hey now... It's ok, Molly." However, he couldn't help but see the harsh underlying truth of it. Sure he would give some flimsy excuse about keeping them both safe from people who'd use them to hurt him, and a part of Sherlock may actually believe that to be the reason.

Greg knew Sherlock better than he was ever willing to admit. The reality was that the brilliant Sherlock Holmes was a fool when it came to emotion. He'd much rather people believe he had none, than know the truth. He has them and he hasn't the first clue of what to do about them.

It was far simpler to limit his experiences to what could be objectively observed, quantified and safely filed away until such a time as to be found useful. This was a neurosis Mycroft had encouraged in his younger brother, and a source of never ending strife between the DI and his lover. They had many arguments over this very matter. 

He understood Mycroft's misgivings. Having been there for Sherlock's relapses, having seen the aftermath of Sherlock's emotional turmoil first-hand meant he was no stranger to the terrible things Sherlock Holmes could let emotion do to him. But it was rather like preaching abstinence: fine in theory, but with the dreadful consequence of leaving one very ill-equipped when the inevitable finally happened. Greg had always known that when it came to these two, it truly was inevitable. Mycroft, of all people, really should have seen this coming. Now his brother was in love with this woman and making absolutely terrible mistakes in that regard. 

In the end it was his fear of "sentiment" that would drag him to his fall, and not the sentiment itself.

"It can't be as bad as all that." He finally concluded, "If it was you wouldn't stay. I know you wouldn't." Things were different now, surely she could see that. She was no longer the wilting flower that just bowed to each of Sherlock's whims. 

"Wouldn't I?!" She heaved a quiet sob and covered her face with her hands that were now hidden beneath her sleeves. She sniffed and rubbed her face. "I'm so pathetic."

"No, Molly. You wouldn't. And you wouldn't let Sherlock-sodding-Holmes fuck up what you want for your life and your future. If a baby is in the cards, you'll raise that baby wherever you like and to Hell with Sherlock. I'd have your back, Molly."

She seemed to lighten at his assurances, lifting her head and sniffing, rubbing her tears away with her sleeve. "But you know it's not just Sherlock I'd have to worry about. He's not the only Holmes I'd be contending with."

Greg shook his head. "You just leave it to me, Mols. I'd sort him out properly. Don't you worry." He flashed his warm handsome smile. His easy lopsided grin full of sparkling teeth and dimples putting her at ease. 

Molly sniffed and pulled herself together, wiping her face clean with her sleeve. "Well that's quite enough blubbering over hypothetical babies. Let's drink." 

Greg laughed heartily, relieved that their evening would no longer be mired in that particular conversational water hazard. 

The night progressed and they chatted amiably through the din of shouting as drinks flowed, the match on the telly ended with a blow out. The result of which had lead two patrons of opposing team loyalties to brawl. Molly looked at Greg as if she expected him to break it up but he shrunk down in his chair and slurred. "Not my division."

Molly giggled then hiccuped. It wasn't until she stood to find the ladies that it occurred to her. "Oh, I'm pissed!" She giggled again as she flailed, trying to find her balance. She steadied herself on the back of her chair, head slumped down as the room spun.

"You all right there?" Greg asked, a little delayed by his own inebriation. Raising to take her hand. "It's time to get you home." 

"I've got it covered, Gabe." A familiar baritone announced. 

Molly's head turned toward the sound, only to bump into the detective's chest. "Oh!" She looked up at him and smiled drunkenly. "Hey!" She greeted him warmly and holding onto the lapels of his coat. 

"Hey." Sherlock said back, helping her into her coat. "I believe you forgot this."

"You found me. Were your ears burning?" She grinned so broadly her eyes shut. 

"Mycroft told me you may need an escort this evening. As he plans on depriving you of your present company." He explained lovingly, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Mycroft?" Molly asked.

"Mycroft's here?!" Greg asked, looking around. 

"In the car outside." Sherlock answered without looking away from Molly. 

"Anthea?" Greg asked. 

"He gave her the night off. He's all yours, detective inspector."

Greg jumped up from his seat eagerly but calmed himself. "Er-You're sure you'll be alright getting her home?" 

"Yes, yes! Enjoy the rest of your evening." Sherlock dismissed him.

"Thanks, Sherlock. Later Molls, good hang." And with that the DI darted toward the exit.

"Yeah. Later... Greg." She mumbled inaudibly against Sherlock's chest.

"Ready to go home?" Sherlock asked her.

"Mmm, your place or mine?" She grumbled as she allowed herself to be led out of the pub.

"Yours in the interim, but tomorrow, once you've sobered up, I'd like to hear your thoughts on cohabitation."

"Academically? Or in... Practice?" Molly blinked up at him but only one eye seemed to want to cooperate with opening and closing.

"I don't care for academia for it's own sake. I've thought about it, and there's no way to split my sock index evenly between two flats. It would be terribly convenient if we consolidated to one, don't you think?"

Molly scoffed. "Yes, well,  far be it from me to come between a man and his-woah!- his sock index." She spoke as he half  carried her out of the pub, catching her as she tripped over the concrete step out side.

As they walked along a parked black sedan, the window nearest them rolled down just a few inches, revealing Mycroft Holmes and the silver-haired detective nestled against his shoulder. "Would you like a ride?" He offered politely in spite of the fact that Greg was becoming overtly affectionate.

Sherlock pulled a look of disgust. "No!" He answered resolutely. Then added as an afterthought, "Uhm... Thank you." 

"Blech!" Sherlock shuddered. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that." He said as his brother's car pulled away.

"What? I think it's sweet." Molly chuckled.

"My brother is many things. 'Sweet' is not one of them." He corrected.

"That's not true. You Holmes boys may have hard exteriors but you're all gooey in the middle... Like a cream egg." Molly laughed breathlessly at her own joke.

"Don't make jokes, Molly." He reprimanded, rolling his eyes.

Molly wasn't having that, "You love my jokes." 

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, steadying her in his arms and looking at her squarely. "I love _you_. Your jokes... are just okay."

"You *hic* love me?" Molly asked, eyes wide, or as wide as she could manage in her state. 

"Naturally." Sherlock answered, trying to feign a certain aloofness.

"I *hic* love you t- heurrrgh!" Molly's reciprocation was cut off by a rather sudden and forceful bout of emesis. She doubled over, expelling her stomach contents onto the concrete. 

Sherlock sighed, holding her hair and patting her back. "Yes, well. That's rather enough sweet talk I should think."

They weren't far from her flat, he would just walk her there so as not to risk further sickness in the confines of a moving car. 

Molly groaned after a few minutes of silent walking. "I can't believe I threw up after the first time you told me you love me."

Sherlock chuckled a low rumbly laugh, drawing her nearer to his side by the arm he had draped over her shoulder. "Story for the grandkids, as they say."


End file.
